


tsujigiri

by grahamcrackers



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, M/M, Pining, i have no clue what i am doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28474974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamcrackers/pseuds/grahamcrackers
Summary: Tsujigiri: (辻斬り or 辻斬)Noun“Crossroads killing”A Japanese term that describes the practice of samurais testing new katanas on passerby.ORWill Graham's new psychiatrist is a little bit strange.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 12





	tsujigiri

**Author's Note:**

> i am totally not used to this format of fanfic, i normally write for the IT fandom and, as you can imagine, the structure and the way the characters are formulated/developed are SO different. takes some getting used to for sure.
> 
> obviously i'm changing things around because i will not rewatch everything for continuity's sake, so dialogue won't be exact and i might just completely fuck up scenes. who knows
> 
> also? i haven't even finished the show yet, embarrassing
> 
> anyways this is for my partner, hope you like your 'fucked up but domestic' fanfiction. <3

Fear: /fir/  
_Noun  
_ An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.

=====

The human psyche is an interesting thing. Freud said there were three facets of personality; the conscious mind, the subconscious mind, and the unconscious mind. Will Graham may not be Sigmund Freud, but he thinks the overlap is quite large.

Will thinks that the lines between conscious, subconscious, and unconscious are blurred, because the waking mind can be near indistinguishable from the slumbering one. The colors start to bleed like a watercolor painting, pigments swirling together. Unplanned and too disorganized, vibrancy melting into a dull brown devoid of any personality. Of course, the sentiment doesn’t hold true when it comes to the human mind. Things get more complicated than can be reasonably expressed on paper, and the human mind is intelligent. Intelligent and far more sophisticated than credit could be given for, not like watercolors. 

Fortunately, Will isn’t an artist. 

No need to think too much about watercolors when you’re too busy psychoanalyzing.

Will stares at the bold red lines drawn taut on the wall. A corkboard. Not unlike one that might be found in a teenage girl’s bedroom. The thought is a sick, sick joke. Considering the subject matter. 

Because instead of polaroids of parking lots and parties and carnivals, the red strings connect abductions. Eight girls. Same hair, same height, same weight. Same age. It’s a fucked up game of ‘I have, who has’. 

It looks painfully obvious, at least to Will, sitting up on Jack Crawford’s desk and digging the toes of his shoes into the carpet. Old carpet, needs replacing. Gray, shot through with little red and blue lines. Like veins. There’s a reason all these girls are the same. Personal connection, probably familial. A daughter. 

Maybe that’s what makes him fit for this job. Nobody does it quite like Will Graham. Will Graham, who can’t look people in the eye and considers a lingering, impersonal conversation tasteless. Useless and a waste. Yeah, nobody does it like Will Graham.

=====

Doctor Hannibal Lecter is infuriating. Terribly rude, psychoanalysis isn’t exactly the first thing that comes to mind when meeting someone new. Maybe he wants to brag, prove to Jack that he’s a shockingly good addition to the team. That would make some semblance of sense, Will supposes.

It’s still irritating nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, who’s profile are you constructing here?” Will chances a glance at Lecter. It isn’t long, just fleeting, just enough to see the cocky glint in the doctor’s eye. Thinly veiled by an apologetic furrow of the brow.

Lecter nods and grips the arms of his seat. “My apologies. I simply found it too irresistible, I hope you understand,” in a lame attempt of humor, he tries, “you’re just so easy to profile, Mr. Graham.”

Prick. Prick, prick, prick.

Will laughs humorlessly. Hannibal Lecter is not funny. He’s cocky and rude, charming only on the surface. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he begins. “you won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

It comes out much less badass and cool than Will would have liked. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lecture to be giving,” Will stands, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket. The left one is longer than the right, and he can feel the way the right sleeve bunches up at the elbow. “About psychoanalysis.”

He feels eyes on him all the way up to the door.

=====

Apparently, mental stability is of utmost importance to Jack Crawford. Which is why Will is getting a psych eval from Hannibal Lecter himself. Apparently, he’s very good. So good. Infuriatingly good, because Will wants nothing more than for the man to be a horrible psychiatrist. Provided more out of courtesy than much else. 

Will supposes that he can understand the motivation there. Behind a psych eval. If Will’s going to be out in the field, attempting to achieve a killer’s point of view, it certainly helps to be mentally stable. And, Jack doesn’t say it, but Will knows he’s worried. Worried about how Will didn’t complete his FBI training on account of he was too unstable. Whatever the fuck that meant.

Will’s repeated insistence that therapy didn’t work on him fell on deaf ears. Jack Crawford wasn’t exactly known for his impeccable listening skills.

Will arrives at Doctor Lecter’s office early. Lecter seems like the sort of guy who doesn’t take kindly to anyone who dares show up late, probably considers it _rude_. 

There’s a leather chair outside the door, but Will doesn’t sit on it. It doesn’t seem too important, and Will is fantastic at doing little, subtle things to show his disdain for certain things. You know, like Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

Will knocks on the door, praying that there isn’t another client inside. There isn’t, because the door swings open and Hannibal Lecter is there, standing in all his glory. “Will,” he greets, accent hypnotic. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

“I figured being early is better than being late. More _polite_.” 

Will isn’t trying to hide the venom dripping from his tongue.

Lecter doesn’t mind. In fact, he smirks. Kinda. The corners of his mouth turn up and he gestures into the room with a quirked brow. “No harm, no foul,” he shrugs and steps back to allow Will space into the room. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Comfortable isn’t really the word Will would use to describe seeing a therapist. Therapy doesn’t work on him. There’s just something about being treated like a fragile little teacup that grinds Will’s gears, takes away any and all desire to see someone. _’How does that make you feel?’_ That’s stupid, because why would Will ever consider talking to some random person about all his baggage? All his shit?

Still, though, Will does as he’s told. It’s a nice office, he’d admit, with a second story lined with books. All sorts, but Will can make out mostly anatomy stuff. 

Will doesn’t sit, even though Hannibal does. He stands against the chair that he assumes is for him, on account of there’s a notepad sitting on the other. 

Watching Hannibal is interesting. Will’s used to watching, that’s all he does. But there’s something about Hannibal that feels so off. Will can’t get inside his head, but maybe that’s for good reason. After all, Doctor Lecter is a psychiatrist, probably well trained in the art of keeping clients out of his head. That is his job, after all. 

“Thinking about something, Will?” Eyes are on Will. He can feel them, feels them raking up and down his body. Hannibal sits down in his own chair, notepad resting in his lap. “I’m sure you won’t mind sharing it with me, then. After all, that is what we’re here for.”

Will doesn’t appreciate Hannibal’s tone. “No, I do mind, actually.”

That’s all he says. He can’t even come up with a clever quip, something to let Lecter know that this isn't going to work. Not on Will Graham, it’s not.

It seems a bit awkward to stand stagnant in the room, especially when it’s so vast, so Will turns on his heel to examine the room. There’s a wood ladder leading up to the second floor. The wood is polished, Will thinks it’s maybe cedar. Long, calloused fingers smooth up and down the surface. 

“I understand your reluctance,” Hannibal starts, and Will can hear the scuff of patent leather shoes against the floorboards, “but at least a little bit of interaction is to be expected, Mr. Graham.”

The way he says it is so condescending. “Professor. I’m a professor,” and normally Will doesn’t see the use in correcting that. It’s just a title. But it feels necessary when talking to the likes of Hannibal Lecter, who talks like Will is a child. Like he’s so superior because he talks to wackjobs and nutcases day after day.

Will hears the smirk in Hannibal’s voice even before he turns and sees it. “My apologies, professor. Care to have a seat?”

"I'm not quite sure what you expect me to say, Doctor," Will chuckles and crosses his arms across his chest. Hands gripping their opposite arm, squeezing tight. Keeping Will grounded. He does not move to sit down. 

"Jack Crawford tells me that you profile killers. Sounds like quite the task, _professor_ ," Hannibal taps his pen against his notepad. A gentle reminder that Will's on the clock, this is his time. His time to talk about shit he doesn't want to talk about. "I just wonder how such an expectation may impact impressionable minds."

And there he goes again, referring to Will's mind as _impressionable_ , like Will's not thirty-four years old. 

"Well, what do you think, _doctor_?" Will shoots back a little bit of that venom, a little bit of the condescension. It's only fair, after all. 

Hannibal leans forward in his chair. It's strange, really, it almost feels more personal. The way he moves from where he is against the backing of the seat into a less formal position, something Will doesn't associate with the practice of psychiatry. Even though they're so far, it feels as if Hannibal is in his space. Almost as if he's right next to Will, breathing down his neck and reading him like a _book_.

Will shivers.

"I think that such field work is bound to have its effect on your mind," Hannibal pauses, "in time. You're highly empathetic, Will. If you absorb so many of such deeds, it will undoubtedly be your undoing," he sits back in his seat. Normal, this time. "But those are just my thoughts on the matter. What do you think, Will?"

What Will thinks is _fuck_ Hannibal Lecter.

"I think my undoing will be my own business, thanks."

=====

Will Graham decides he will not be seeing Hannibal Lecter again. 

**Author's Note:**

> pls idk what i'm doing, please be nice i'm sensitive
> 
> i know this was short and uninteresting but!! i swear i'm just setting up for better stuff soon, PROMISE
> 
> will continue this probably hopefully


End file.
